What is it with poets and corners anyway? Are they like cockroaches and simply prefer to hide in dark corners, to avoid being swept away by brooms or being squashed by a woman wielding a flip-flop? Eh? Daft emo scribblers!
To accompany my series of Professionals themed twaddle, I have written some suitably toe curling poetry for your reading pleasure. First up, a poem about my mum’s favourite; curly haired, pert waisted Ray Doyle.
A Cherub in Beige Slacks
Raymond Doyle is a sensitive chap,
He reads all kind of philosophical crap.
Listening to his LPs of Mantovani,
He’ll make you a cracking lamb biryani.
A dead eyed shot and a karate master,
No-one can run through a warehouse faster;
With bouncing curls and sardonic air,
And that weird cheekbone that just shouldn’t be there.
He’s fond of shades and lemon shirts,
And classy girls in maxi skirts.
A charming boy, unless shouting at Cowley;
When you find his voice gets all deep and growly.
Though he works for the government, he ain’t that patriotic.
He’s just far too busy being homo-erotic.
You see, he and his partner are truly devoted;
All that unnecessary touching should definitely be noted.
So hot-headed Doyle, with your morals and doubts,
With your giggles and big-eyed angelic pouts,
The thing that’s become very clear to me
You’re a scruffy, bruised cherub in a Ford Capri.